


Nest

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FLUFF AND CUTE, Fluff, M/M, and sleeping habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:56:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock walks into Greg's life, and Greg learns how to share one of the important things -- the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nest

There were a lot of reasons that Greg Lestrade hadn’t dated anyone in years. Most of them were legitimate and reasonable -- and the other was that he took up too much room in bed. He wasn’t a particularly wide man. He played footie every weekend; he ran sometimes. He was fit -- in more ways than one. 

He just had a habit of stretching out, from one side to the other. It was impressive, actually -- though not many people had been around to be impressed by it. 

But then there was Sherlock. And while Greg had done everything in his power to make a comfortable living arrangement for the frail, idiot detective on his sofa -- Sherlock was far too feline for that. He actually hated Greg’s sofa. A lot of people did, but none of them had ever deliberately set it on fire because they couldn’t stand the sight of it.

Those scorch marks were forever -- in memory of the bad days. Like hell Greg was getting rid of his second most prized possession just because of a couple of burns. Besides -- his beloved sofa had seen worse.

He’d offered to switch after that, if only to save his home from recurring episodes of arson. Sherlock got the bed, and Greg got to keep his possessions intact. And it worked for a little while. Sherlock curled up in a little corner, because despite his height, he was immensely gifted at making himself incredibly small, and Greg sprawled out across his couch with one foot in the air and an arm under the coffee table. It wasn’t ideal, but it did work, and that was enough. 

Sherlock would come and go, and Greg would go on about his day as if he’d never found that sorry wretch of a man. Greg would move back to his own bed -- gratefully -- until Sherlock came back again. 

Until the time that Sherlock came back in the middle of the night. 

Greg was asleep -- one foot in the bottom left corner, a knee touching the opposite side of the bed. One arm propped up a pillow that was getting too thin and the other? He was just glad that monsters under the bed were a thing of the long-distant past. 

Monsters in his bed were a whole new thing, he discovered, when Sherlock crawled through his sitting room window. 

He’d woken up to the sound of footsteps -- eerily quiet footsteps, but he was a light sleeper. He didn’t have anything but his hands to fight with. He was a football player, not cricket or polo, or any sport that would’ve offered a heavy wooden stick for his defence. Luckily -- or stupidly -- bravery was with him in his sleepy state. He sat up.

Sherlock pushed open the bedroom door. 

Greg fought the urge to chuck a lamp at the younger man’s head. He could see the outline -- the all-too-familiar outline in the light from the street just outside -- and he recognised him immediately. And if Sherlock cared that Greg was awake and staring -- angrily -- he said nothing. He tiptoed across the room, avoiding the creakiest floorboards, and slid into bed, shoes and coat and all. 

Greg watched as Sherlock made himself comfortable. He nested. There was no better word for it; he made himself a nest in among the blankets, and Greg’s body -- right in the bloody middle of the bed that Greg usually took up. 

He put his very cold hand on Greg’s leg. 

The older detective sank back down to his elbows, his eyes struggling to discern Sherlock from Sherlock’s coat from the blankets from weird, lumpy shadow. He could hear the boy breathing -- always a good sign, and reassuring, since it wasn’t always a given where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. The things he got up to... Greg shook his head. He leaned back into the pillows. 

He took ‘bad at sharing the bed’ off his list of reasons not to date anyone that night. The rest were already irrelevant.


End file.
